


Magret de Canard et Gratin Dauphinois

by Belphegor



Series: Soul Food [4]
Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Friendship, Gen, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belphegor/pseuds/Belphegor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1944: Is the gratin dauphinois burning? (First published on Fanfiction.net in 2011.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magret de Canard et Gratin Dauphinois

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is the longest (but not, curiously, the one that took me longest to write), and possibly my favourite of the lot. The date is a clue to a main plot point – kudos to those who can guess what before it's mentioned in dialogue :o)
> 
> Magret de canard – usually just called "magret" – is roasted duck breast (Sud-Ouest cuisine tends to feature duck prominently), and together with gratin dauphinois, it's probably one of my very favourite dishes when done well. It's not gourmet food (it does require some culinary knowledge, though, compared to something like garbure, which is basically leftover soup), but it's absolutely delicious.

_August 25th, 1944_

Being Sergeant of the Guard in the toughest, most escape-proof Stalag in all of Germany had a lot of downsides – at least, it felt so to Schultz. However, it also had (fortunately) a few perks. And being Kommandant Klink's food-taster was undoubtedly his favourite perk of all.

Officially, he was in the kitchen to watch LeBeau, but also Carter and Newkirk, who had been drafted – so to speak – into waiting tables, as well as check they did not try to escape or tamper with the food. Unofficially, it meant that he got to taste some of the most delicious dishes he had ever tasted with little to no afterthought, because he would sooner eat his helmet than suspect the chef of poisoning the food he prepared. His Cockroach loved his 'cuisine' too much to spoil it like that.

A quick glance in the Frenchman's direction confirmed Schultz's opinion. Considering the skill and precision – not to mention the obvious enthusiasm – he showed slicing through the fresh duck breast, he would probably rather grab a knife than a bottle of rat poison.

As much as Schultz loved to eat, the step of cutting through bloody former parts of animals had always made him feel a little queasy. He looked away, and his gaze fell on Carter, who was sitting back-to-front on a nearby chair, wearing a puzzled sort of expression.

"You know, LeBeau," he said thoughtfully, "there's something I just don't get."

LeBeau looked up from his duck for a second. "What is it?"

"This thing has blood all over, and you haven't fainted or anything. How come?"

Schultz turned from Carter to LeBeau, confused.

"'Fainted'? When did you faint, Cockroach?"

LeBeau proceeded to turn as red as his sweater and mumbled something Schultz didn't catch. So he looked at Carter again.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there was this time when he got hurt, and we thought it was really bad – but then actually it wasn't that bad, really –" The American spoke quickly, in what was probably meant to be an offhand tone, but alarms blared off in Schultz's head. The specific 'monkey business' type of alarms.

"Hurt how?"

"Nicked 'imself peeling potatoes," said Newkirk's voice behind them before either Carter or LeBeau could answer. The Englishman put down the empty hors d'œuvres tray and started filling it again, adding as an afterthought, "And it wasn't a very big nick at that."

LeBeau stiffened, and Schultz wondered why he absently rubbed his right shoulder. "Tu parles," he muttered. Newkirk shot him a pointed look, then turned back to Schultz with an unreadable expression.

"Should've seen this, mate. One minute everything's fine, the next he's on the ground, out like a light. Scared us half to death, too," he added with a mild glare while Carter smiled.

Schultz had a feeling the story didn't ring exactly true, but he was willing to bet the last part was. He had known Newkirk long enough to recognise the truth lurking behind the sarcasm most of the time.

It didn't seem possible for LeBeau to turn any redder, but somehow he managed it. "What was your question again, Carter?" he deadpanned, deliberately not looking at Newkirk, who was smirking again.

"How come you're not upset by bloody meat?" asked Carter, not one to let go of an idea once he got it. LeBeau gathered the slices of meat, added a bit of seasoning and a splash of honey, and paused, as though mulling over the answer.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "It's just not the same thing. This is just meat juice, I guess, but blood … Blood is completely different."

Carter nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, and after a second followed Newkirk into the dining room. LeBeau stared into the meat for a second, then shrugged and put the dish into the oven. There was already something in it, and the delicious smell of cheese and potatoes lingered long after he closed the oven door.

Schultz closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "What is it called again, what you're making?" he asked, eager to steer the conversation to a safer subject. LeBeau barely glanced back to answer him as he rummaged around the nearby cupboards.

"Gratin dauphinois. Slices of potatoes baked in milk with grilled cheese topping." He emerged with a small bottle that was three-quarters empty, and frowned. "Schultz, the next time Klink asks for crème anglaise, you tell him we're almost out of vanilla."

"Tell me if I've got this one wrong," said Newkirk's voice behind Schultz again, making him jump, "but doesn't 'crème anglaise' mean 'English cream'?"

"Yes it does, and yes you can brag now –"

"Don't tempt me," the Englishman interrupted with a wicked smile. "It's just that Klink's guest might take exception to that. Apparently this General Falke was a big man during the Blitz." He paused. "Mind if I tell the Kraut he's having Englische Creme?"

This got a quick smile from LeBeau. "Not at all, go ahead – but please, work on your pronunciation."

"Bit rich coming from you, you don't speak a word of German!"

"I _meant_ French."

"Are they fighting for real, this time?" Schultz whispered to Carter, who was pouring three glasses of that Spanish cold tomato soup he couldn't remember the name of. "It's hard to tell, with them."

Carter finished pouring the last of the soup with great concentration, then gave one of his trademark lopsided grins. "They're not really fighting. LeBeau got some bad news from home lately, and this is just Newkirk's way of putting his mind off it."

"I'm not sure LeBeau appreciates the thought," Schultz mused, looking at the two. Maybe there was something to be said about Newkirk's 'cheering up' method, though, he inwardly amended, spotting the spark in the Frenchman's eyes that seemed to have left these past few days.

"Uh, guys?" Carter called when the two belligerents stopped to breathe. "Soup's getting cold. I mean, warm."

The American must be right, Schultz reflected as he watched the heated discussion abruptly stop. Jackets and hats were straightened, trays were picked up, and LeBeau said, as serious as though he was declaring war, "Messieurs, dinner is served."

Schultz had introduced the General to Klink's office earlier, but he had not paid him a lot of attention then. The man who now sat at Klink's table was tall, thin, with jet-black hair and beady eyes of a startlingly blue colour. He was perhaps ten years younger than Schultz, but his hard-cut face and long, wiry frame made him look older than he probably was.

General Heinrich Falke had such a strong, commanding presence that it almost reduced his wife Waltrude – a petite, cold-looking woman who must have been quite pretty a decade or two earlier – to a purely decorative role. However, Schultz caught her glancing fleetingly at Kommandant Klink, who was happily babbling about a concert he had attended in Berlin before the war, and was chilled by the cold, calculating contempt that flashed in her eyes for a second before she switched back to the part of the meek, polite wife.

The cold soup – which was quickly identified as 'gazpacho' – went down well with Klink and his two guests, as well as Schultz, who as usual was requested to taste a bit of everything before it was served. Needless to say, it took a lot of self-control for him not to drink the whole thing. As usual.

He finally spotted Klink's narrowing stare behind the monocle, though.

"Well, Schultz? Is it safe for us to dine now?" he asked impatiently. Schultz licked his lips, just in case there was anything left on them.

"Ab-so-lutely, Herr Kommandant." He immediately regretted being so final so soon; perhaps, if he didn't sound so certain next time, he could get second helpings?

"This is a most unusual arrangement you have there with your prisoners, Kommandant," said Frau Falke lazily, barely acknowledging Newkirk pouring her a glass of wine.

Klink beamed. "Oh, it's not really an arrangement. I just promised our senior POW officer that all prisoners would be allowed one extra bread ration if he let me use his men for the evening."

"So it _is_ an arrangement, then," Falke said coolly. Klink's smile froze.

"Indeed, Herr General, it is an arrangement – a mutually beneficial arrangement. In fact, General Burkhalter was here just last week and he –"

" _How_ is dear old Albert, by the way?" Frau Falke interrupted with supreme aplomb as Schultz sampled one of the eggs mimosa. "We haven't had the pleasure of seeing him for at least four months."

"We were in Paris for a while," Falke continued without missing a beat while Klink opened and closed his mouth, rather floored by the general's wife's rudeness but clearly not daring to call her out on it. "Fortunately my leave ended before the … troubles began."

"Yes, I did hear there had been something of a scuffle recently," said Klink, eager to appear well-informed but desperate for updates on the Western front that did not come from the significantly untrustworthy radio.

Falke gave a cold smile. "'Is', Klink, 'is' – present tense. Last I heard, the rabble was still fighting in the streets. Really, this last leave had perfect timing; God knows what the landscape will look like after von Choltitz razes the city to the ground."

A sudden sharp sound of breaking glass made everybody start, and Frau Falke let out an undignified yelp. The wine bottle Carter had been holding had smashed on the floor, splashing her dress with burgundy red.

"Gosh, I'm sorry, ma'am, it just slipped … Well, I guess your dress is a little bit stained, let me fix that for – _ow!_ "

Frau Falke seemed to have thrown the 'ornamental wife' image out the window, and was hollering at Carter and walloping him upside the head with her rolled-up napkin. Carter flailed to get his balance and grabbed her chair, General Falke rose from his own chair to defend his wife, while Klink tried desperately (and perfectly uselessly) to calm things down.

In the end, Schultz all but picked up Carter from the ground – rescuing him from the clutches of the furious woman – pushed him into the kitchen, and closed the door behind them with a sigh of relief.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again was a white-faced LeBeau standing in front of him clutching the kitchen knife he had used to carve the meat, his dark eyes burning.

Schultz had known Louis LeBeau for almost four years, but he could not help blanching a little. A five foot three man in an apron and a chef's hat should never have looked that scary.

"'Raze the city to the ground'?" he asked quietly, and this eerie calm was so much worse than his usual fiery temper.

Carter had recovered quickly; he straightened his jacket with a determined look on his face and strode to the tap to rinse his hands, indifferent to the tension.

"Don't worry, Louis, you know Kraut generals are always full of hot air. Nobody in their right mind would ever order to completely destroy Paris."

A treacherous but persistent thought knocked on the back door to Schultz's brain. 'Nobody in their right mind' would, there was no doubt about that. But … rumours had been flying for a while … The kind of rumours that could get you killed just by listening to them, and not in a nice, clean way like getting slaughtered on the Russian front while already dying of typhus, either.

LeBeau appeared to have the same objection, but Schultz noted with a no small amount of relief that he looked less strung up. He put the knife back on the table, for a start.

"They've been fighting for six days now," he muttered grimly. "If von Choltitz gets his reinforcements, it will be a massacre."

Schultz did not ask how he could possibly know that – Hogan and his men had their way of knowing things. He was thinking about what he had heard about cities that revolted: most of the people ended up dead. Men, women, old people, children even.

It made him feel cold all over, and a little bit sick.

"Where's Newkirk?" he asked, eager for a change of subject. LeBeau was putting the finishing touch on the main course; he looked at Schultz with the ghost of a smile.

"You fell back and left him behind? Honestly, Schultz, call yourself a soldier?"

"Think he got some of the wine on him," said Carter in a light tone, with a glance and a nod to LeBeau that obviously meant something for them but not to Schultz. "He must've gone to the bathroom."

"Oh, gut, gut." Hopefully, this was true. Being left alone with that unpleasant general, his equally unpleasant wife, and a flustered Klink was not something Schultz would wish on his worst enemy, let alone an admittedly troublesome but ultimately nice boy like Newkirk. Besides, the Engländer had fought in the war, been captured and sent here – further torture was against the Geneva convention, not to mention completely unnecessary.

Hoping against hope that the situation had defused by now, Schultz followed Carter – who, he noted admiringly, ambled into the dining room as though nothing had happened – and tried to take up as little space as he could … Definitely not an easy task.

Thankfully, things seemed to have calmed down: everybody was sitting in their chair and did not appear to be fuming too much, although Frau Falke threw a dirty glare at the American. There was no trace of Newkirk anywhere, and Schultz caught himself hoping the couple hadn't murdered him and stashed the body somewhere.

"Magret de canard avec gratin dauphinois," Carter announced, tripping a little over the ' _r_ 's but making a valiant effort.

Klink smiled, visibly relieved at the distraction.

"Thank you, Carter. Schultz, do your duty."

There was a lot of duties Sergeant Schultz did reluctantly, but this one was not one of them. The potatoes and cheese melted in his mouth; the addition of crispy but still soft duck meat with a hint of honey made the whole thing nothing short of sublime.

"Well?"

"Just one more, Herr Kommandant, I am not quite sure …"

Klink's face abruptly became about as friendly and open as the door to the cooler.

"You haven't fallen over yet, have you?" he snapped. "There is nothing wrong with this food, stop stuffing yourself!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." _Ah, well_. At least he had tried, this time.

Nobody spoke for five minutes while they ate – or rather, the general and his wife were silent, and something about their attitude discouraged Klink from attempting to make conversation. Finally, when Frau Falke had swallowed her last mouthful of magret, she made a small noise of contentment and crooned, "This was delicious. Kommandant, you'll make sure to give the chef our regards, won't you?"

"This was indeed quite good," Falke said, looking at the leftovers on the platter with a narrowed eye. "How did you get your hands on a duck? I heard that meat was getting scarce in Hammelburg these days." He frowned. "I hope you don't dabble in black market, Klink."

The Kommandant turned bright red, swallowed his mouthful with some difficulty and stammered, "Oh, no, General, I don't dabble in – I've never dabbled in my life. There's a farm twenty kilometres from here, and sometimes I buy their products. They are serious, hard-working people, very dedicated to the Fatherland."

Schultz spotted Carter lowering his head to hide a smile, and was very glad nobody else seemed to have noticed. That way, he could quickly forget that he had seen anything.

Falke opened his mouth to say something, but was cut short by Corporal Langenscheidt rushing into the room without even knocking. "Entschuldigen Sie, bitte, Herr General," he panted, "there's a Lieutenant Schäffer for you on the phone. He said he's the aide of Field Marshall Sperrle and it's urgent."

Everyone stared at Langenscheidt, who reddened even more. Falke stood up and followed him to Klink's office without a word.

Schultz met Carter's curious gaze; the American raised his eyebrows in unmistakeable 'Well?' manner, and shrugged imperceptibly. This unexpected development was news to him, as well.

Falke was back not four minutes later, looking as though someone had hit him on the head with a plank. He sat back down, took his napkin with a slightly shaking hand, and said quietly, "Field Marshall Sperrle is calling all his units back to France. I'm to leave tomorrow at dawn."

Frau Falke put down her glass with extreme care. Klink's eyes went round. Schultz heard Carter hold his breath, and only then remembered to breathe, himself.

"We lost Paris. Von Choltitz surrendered."

"What about the Führer's orders?" Frau Falke asked in a near whisper. Falke shook his head, anger seeping through underneath the shock.

"The coward disobeyed. The city still stands."

Relief flooded Schultz at the thought of another bloodbath averted, and from the corner of his eye he saw Carter sagging a bit with a barely-audible "Phew." What surprised him at first was the very similar reaction from Klink, but in hindsight it shouldn't have. For all his faults, Kommandant Klink hated blood about as much as Schultz did.

In the stunned, heavy hush that had followed the General's words suddenly came a wild, inarticulate yell, and even if it was completely incomprehensible – at least to Schultz – there was no mistaking the sheer unbridled joy behind it … Or the language.

It lasted for a full minute.

"I take it your chef is French?" Frau Falke asked dryly when LeBeau stopped to breathe. "Although I must say the menu was something of a giveaway."

"Yes, yes, he is," Klink muttered, having gone from slightly pale to deep crimson with embarrassment in a matter of minutes. It didn't help that they all could hear singing cheerfully from the kitchen now. The words – belted out with both talent and enthusiasm – Schultz didn't understand, but it was crystal-clear what the song was about. Besides, there was a sort of blithely cheeky undertone to it that reminded Schultz of the rare downright unholy grin the Frenchman would sometimes give him after a bit of monkey business.

_Paris sera toujours Paris_  
 _La plus belle ville du monde_  
 _Malgré l'obscurité profonde_  
 _Son éclat ne peut être assombri …_

Schultz deliberately avoided looking at Carter. He was certain that if he did, he would not be able to hold back his laughter anymore.

" _Schultz!_ " Klink half-snapped, half-whined, faltering under the still silent General's stare. "Get in there and make him stop!"

"And bring him here, as well," Frau Falke said with a curious expression on her face. "I believe it's customary to thank the chef after such a good meal."

Schultz retreated hastily to the kitchen.

There he found LeBeau whisking egg whites while he sang, looking the polar opposite of his earlier dark countenance. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shone, and his smile could have been measured in kilometres.

" _Sa bonne humeur et son –_ Schultz! Did you hear …? Yes, of course you heard. Isn't this – isn't it – oh, et puis tant pis pour l'anglais! C'est merveilleux, c'est formidable, c'est pas croyable …!"

"I know, Cockroach, I know," said Schultz as patiently as he dared knowing the Kommandant, a general and his wife were waiting behind the door. "And I'm very, very happy." He paused, then looked around as something odd struck him. "Where did Newkirk get to? I thought he was here all this time."

LeBeau made a wide dismissive gesture, the whisk still in his hand. It was fortunate the whites were properly stiffened – otherwise bits of egg would have been flying across the kitchen.

"He's around, Schultzie. Don't worry, he'll turn up. By the way, could you get the crème anglaise from the refrigerator? Merci bien."

Schultz complied without really thinking, but as he passed the bowl to LeBeau he remembered what he was supposed to do in the first place.

"Maybe I should put it back. Frau Falke said she wanted to see you."

The elation made a bit of room for a perplexed look.

"They haven't had their dessert yet," the Frenchman pointed out. Schultz shrugged.

"Perhaps, but apparently they want to congratulate the chef." He dropped his voice very low, just in case. "Between you and me, I think the Gnädige Frau has terrible manners. She was really rude to the Kommandant, and she hit Carter with her napkin."

The last part made LeBeau frown slightly, but joy was still shining in his eyes. "Well, she's a general's wife – she can afford bad manners. All right, give me one minute to finish my îles flottantes."

The 'îles flottantes' turned out to be floating islands: meringues floating on crème anglaise. LeBeau added a trickle of caramel on each one and placed the plates on a tray, finishing with a deliberately over-dramatic flourish. "Okay, Schultzie, lead the way."

Schultz rolled his eyes, and did lead the way.

Newkirk still wasn't in the dining room, he noticed with growing concern, but he appeared to be the only one who did. Carter was still loyal to his post, standing near the table with a bottle of white wine and getting occasionally glared at by Frau Falke; General Falke seemed to have slipped back into his earlier aloof, cold persona; and Klink's relief at the lack of inappropriate Gallic outbursts had a wary edge to it, as though he kept expecting one.

LeBeau still wore the most ridiculously big grin on his face, and Schultz, watching General Falke out the corner of his eye, wished he didn't.

"Félicitations, monsieur," said Frau Falke in a sweet voice that raised the short hairs on the back of Schultz's neck. "This dinner was exquisite."

"Vous parlez français, madame?" LeBeau's tone was the very model of respectful surprise, and Schultz prayed he continued in that vein.

"My wife has an excellent education," Falke cut in, a lot more curtly than he should have. "Which is more than I can say for some." Exactly who was obvious from his tone.

"Oh, I completely agree, sir," LeBeau retorted straight away, his smile not faltering a bit. "Some people have absolutely no manners at all. I mean, invading countries is one thing, but replacing all the road signs with German ones? That was just rude."

Schultz's eyes went from one to the other, his spoon of crème anglaise forgotten in his hand, completely missing the fact that he was still eating out of Klink's plate. He needed not have worried, however; the Kommandant's expression, when the sergeant unfroze and glanced at him, put him in mind of a rabbit facing an incoming Tiger tank while being too scared to move.

Falke dropped his own spoon on his plate with a sharp clink.

"One idiot surrendering some city to riffraff does not justify insolence, especially from a prisoner of war. You will apologise immediately."

Schultz closed his eyes, having a pretty good idea what would come next.

"General, I have only one word for you," said LeBeau cheerfully, triumph and defiance vying for first place in his eyes, "and that's what the Général Cambronne said to the English when they asked him to surrender at Waterloo."

Frau Falke choked on her glass of wine, and her husband pursed his lips. If looks could kill, this one would have obliterated the chef.

"Colonel Klink," he said, slamming his napkin on the table and springing up, "I demand this prisoner be taken to solitary to spend an adequate period of time reflecting on what is acceptable and what is not."

Klink leaped from his chair and stammered, "Jawohl, Herr General. I mean, of course, General, I can guarantee he will. _Schultz!_ " he yelled, even though the Sergeant was standing right next to him. "Take this man to the cooler at once, I will decide on the number of days later. _Now_ , Dummkopf!"

Schultz was still checking his ear for damage with his pinkie; the Kommandant's last word made him start and he jumped to attention. "Ja _wohl_ , Herr Kommandant!" Then he deflated and sighed. "Come along, Cockroach."

Thankfully, LeBeau didn't protest or launch into a diatribe in French. He didn't need to. The expression on his face spoke for him, and nobody – not even Schultz – could miss the hard, blazing look lurking behind the smile.

"Oh, before you go," Frau Falke piped up, raising a gloved hand and glancing idly at the chef, "could you tell us what this dessert is called? I don't believe I've tasted anything like this before."

"Ce sont des îles flottantes," he answered, still grinning.

"With crème anglaise," said a familiar voice just behind the two of them – how _did_ that dratted Engländer do that? "It means 'Englische Creme', you know."

Sure enough, Newkirk was standing there as though he had never left, smiling impishly, his posture a picture of would-be offhandedness. He was probably quite aware that he looked about as casual as the cat who had not only gobbled the canary, but had also left a card asking for more.

Schultz grabbed LeBeau by the arm and fled, thinking he would be lucky if he only had to watch one prisoner in the cooler tonight.

* * *

After his customary night patrol, Schultz returned to the cooler, resigning himself to a long, dreary night of boredom watching LeBeau and making sure he was still there in the morning. The only luxury allowed to both guard and prisoner was a chair for the former and a bench for the latter, and he could already feel his joints protesting in anticipation.

He sat on the chair with a gloomy sigh, and crossed his hands on his ample stomach, trying to make himself as comfortable as he could, when a small, strange and completely foreign sound reached his ears. He frowned, puzzled, and risked a glance behind the bars next to him.

LeBeau was sitting on the bench with his hands in his lap, quite calm and still smiling. Tears he did nothing to stop were rolling down his face.

Concern immediately replaced puzzlement, and Schultz fumbled with the keys to open the door.

"What's the matter, LeBeau? Are you all right?"

The Frenchman shook his head, his smile widening. The familiar dimple on the right side of his mouth was showing.

"All right …? Yes, Schultz, I'm all right. I'm more than all right."

Schultz didn't really understand. His mind said this made no sense, but his instinct whispered that it did – exactly what kind of sense he didn't know, though. So, unsure of what to do, he ended up taking a seat on the bench next to LeBeau – who shifted to leave him a bit of room – and reached inside his uniform for a handkerchief.

"Thanks." LeBeau wiped his face, but kept the tissue in his hands.

Silence fell. The only sounds that reached the men in the cooler were the creaks of warm wood buildings getting colder, the odd whine or bark from the dog kennels, and the various small night noises Schultz had never been able to trace. Still he didn't move from his spot on the bench.

"Four years, Schultz. Four years." LeBeau's voice was soft, almost a whisper. This sudden sound in the relative silence should have startled Schultz, but it didn't. "My mother, my sisters … I was afraid I would never see them again even if I did escape. Anything – anything – could have happened to each of them. I thought about that for four years, every day." Something hollow and haunted flashed in his eyes for a second. "For all I know, something did this past week, and I won't find out until I get a letter."

The handkerchief didn't stop the tears, but no amount of tears could ever get in the way of that smile.

"They're free, Schultzie. My city, my home … My family, my friends … They're _free_. It's the most wonderful word in the world." He blinked. "Except for 'love', of course."

"I was wondering when you would get to that," said an uncharacteristically quiet Cockney-accented voice near the door. "You French are a bunch of 'opeless romantics, you are."

Newkirk was half-leaning on the cell door, a tray in his hands. If he noticed LeBeau's tear-streaked face – and it was difficult not to – he didn't show it.

"Brought you leftovers, mate. That Kraut general had no appreciation for French cuisine at all."

"You two should get along well, then," LeBeau retorted, the warm, grateful look he shot him belying the sarcastic words. Schultz steeled himself for a scolding, secretly glad to be back on familiar territory.

"Newkirk, how did you get in? I _know_ I locked the cooler door!"

"No, you didn't, you just closed it behind you."

"But I have the key and everything – I did?" Usually, it was so dreadfully easy to let Newkirk confuse him completely until there remained nothing he was certain of. Tonight, though, Schultz felt that the Englishman's heart was not really in it, and frankly he could not blame him. "Ach, well, I will lock it now, then. Come on, get out of there."

He lifted himself up from the bench, trying hard not to grin like a little boy while waiting for Newkirk to play his part. He did not have to wait long – in fact, he had not even reached the cell door when he heard a sly, "Oh, Schultzie? I think I have a little something here that has your name on it."

Three chocolate bars magically appeared between his fingers. "Would ya look at that. _Three_ little somethings. You're in luck, mate."

Through the sweet call of candy and his own stomach celebrating in anticipation, Schultz took a second to smile. There really was something endearing to these boys that he couldn't shake, which no amount of mockery, grief, insolence and confusion they could throw at him ever changed.

He chuckled. "All right, Newkirk. I won't report you. But no monkey business, ja?"

"Scout's honour," Newkirk said cheekily, with a tolerable but sloppy attempt at a scout salute. Schultz shook his head, smiling into his short moustache, and went back to his chair outside the cell.

Where he could listen to everything and hear nothing.

"The Guv said he'll get you out of here first thing tomorrow," came Newkirk's lowered voice after a while. "After the 'guests' leave, of course."

Silence.

"Look, Louis, I only needed a little diversion to get back, not a re-enacting of the bloody Battle of France! What did you have to get yerself chucked into the cooler for, eh? What were you thinking?"

Schultz could almost see LeBeau shrugging.

"I wasn't really thinking."

Newkirk snorted. "Big surprise."

There was a small chuckle – "Yeah." – followed by the tinkle of crockery. "Do you want some gratin?"

"Sure, I've always liked living dangerously." The two men fell silent while they shared the contents of the platter, and Schultz, who profoundly disliked being the only one not to eat, took out a candy bar and tore off the wrapping. It was fortunate he didn't take a bite right away, because the next thing he heard would have caused it to resurface immediately.

"So, did you get the information in the end?"

"Well, I 'ad plenty of time, didn't I?" Newkirk paused to swallow his mouthful of cold potatoes as Schultz considered putting his hands on his ears to block the conversation. Unfortunately, he could hardly do that while holding a candy bar. "Yeah, I did, and it was worth everything she said it would be. Played the nasty Kraut general's wife part well, didn't she?"

"I don't think she was playing, Newkirk. You should've seen her face when she looked at Carter – he may have made an enemy for life."

"As long as it's a _very_ long life, with the pond between them." A beat. "Say, this ain't half bad, even cold. Think you can make us some of that stuff some time?"

"Think you can get me an oven, milk, honey, potatoes and a pound of duck breast? …Forget I asked. Just don't take Klink's oven, he might notice."

The conversation seemed to be back on safer tracks. Schultz happily chomped into his candy bar, closing his eyes in delight. Chocolate truly was a marvellous invention.

"The white stuff was all gone, but I saved some of the crème anglaise."

"Newkirk, your pronunciation …"

"… What about it?"

"It's … not that bad."

Schultz heard a theatrical gasp. "Who are you, and wha' have you done with me picky pain of a French corporal?"

"Tu sais ce qu'il te dit, le Français, rosbif à la noix?"

"Frog eater."

"Barbarian."

"Short arse."

"Pickpocket." A pause. "… Pierre?"

"Yeah?"

"Merci, mon pote."

"You're welcome, mate."

Schultz didn't really know exactly what LeBeau was thanking Newkirk for, but he had a feeling it didn't matter much.

Colonel Hogan did manage to coax Kommandant Klink into releasing the French corporal from the cooler the day after, as usual. A couple of days later, Schultz found his handkerchief – cleaned, pressed and carefully folded – on the small bedside table in his quarters, next to what turned out to be the best, most gloriously scrumptious apple strudel he had ever tasted.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Tu parles_ : literally, "you talk"; another way of saying "yeah, right".
> 
> _Messieurs_ : plural form of "monsieur". "M'sieur" works only in the context of a kid talking to a grown man, like a teacher or a stranger in the street, usually because he kicked his ball into a tree and wants help to get it back. _Not_ something adults call each other.
> 
> _Gut, gut_ : "good, good".
> 
> _Entschuldigen Sie, bitte_ : "I beg your pardon" (formal).
> 
> _Oh, et puis tant pis pour l'anglais!_ : literally, "Never mind the English (language)"; means something like a colloquial but not rude at all way of saying "To hell with (speaking) English ( _implied_ , I'm switching to French)".
> 
> _C'est merveilleux, c'est formidable, c'est pas croyable …_ _!_ : "This is/It's marvellous, it's fantastic, it's incredible …!"
> 
> _Merci bien_ : more formal than "thanks a lot", less formal than "thank you very much". Not used a lot lately.
> 
> _Félicitations, monsieur_ : "congratulations, sir."
> 
> _Vous parlez français, madame_?: "You speak English, ma'am/madam?"
> 
> _Ce sont des îles flottantes_ : "They are floating islands." _Note:_ "Ce" in front of a vowel changes to "c' ", as in " **c'e** st une île flottante".
> 
> _The pond_ : the Atlantic ocean.
> 
> _Tu sais ce qu'il te dit, le Français, rosbif à la noix?_ : "(D')you know what this Frenchman says to you, you lousy Brit?" "Rosbif" (French deformation of "roast beef") is a derogatory French term for an Englishman; "à la noix" means something like "nut-flavoured", and I don't believe there's any naughty subtext. Yes, a lot of French expressions seem to feature food of some sort.
> 
> _Merci, mon pote_ : Thanks, mate (exclusively a bloke).
> 
> The song LeBeau is singing is called _Paris_ _sera toujours_ _Paris_ , a 1939 song by Maurice Chevalier; the chorus means something like:
> 
> _Paris will always be Paris_   
> _The most beautiful city in the world_   
> _Despite the deep darkness_   
> _Her lights cannot be dimmed …_
> 
> It was written just as France and Britain declared war on Nazi Germany; everybody was making preparations for war, including turning off the street lights at night, boarding up the windows and protecting statues and important buildings. The melody is fast-paced and the tone is light and cheeky, in keeping with Chevalier's comedic stage persona.
> 
> Hitler had indeed ordered General Dietrich von Choltitz to raze Paris rather than to 'let it fall into enemy hands'; however, von Choltitz disobeyed and surrendered after six days' fighting, during which about 3200 Germans and 1600 Parisian civilians were killed. Paris was liberated on the 25th by the 2nd French Armoured Division and the 4th U.S. Infantry Division. In reality, the city itself actually wasn't that strategically important in the course of war; Field Marshall Hugo Sperrle (who at that time commanded the Luftwaffe on the Western front) would not have called back all his men to fight back for it. I took a bit of liberty with history because I wanted the Falkes to leave quickly :o)
> 
> As for what the count of Cambronne said to English General Colville at Waterloo … He may have said two things. The first is the heroic but ultimately false (for him, anyway) "La garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas" (the Guard dies, but does not surrender). The second (which I went for) is the much shorter, more straightforward and rather hilarious "Merde!"


End file.
